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After prudently taking my steps along the side wall of the house, I peek out. There’s a man, and he’s just about to leave.
“Hey!” I point my gun at him.
He swiftly pivots and jumps over a fence with his long legs, then sprints across a yard next door. Not to be outdone, I work my gazelle limbs to keep on his tail. I can’t let him get to his car. If he’s here to get me or Raffi, I’m going to send him back to Don with something missing. And if Clayton had sent him, I’ve got a message for him.
The man manages to get to his car, but the road is narrow here. He can’t just maneuver it around. He drives straight on, but I change direction. I’m going to catch that son of a bitch around the corner.
And there he is.
I shoot at his windshield, and he stops.
I know I haven’t shot the man himself, so I keep pointing my gun at the car. He’s stepping out now.
“Who sent you?” I follow his movement. “The scumbag or the fool?”
The man takes off his sunglasses. For the life of me, I hope he’s with the good guy. Am I so deprived of good people that my exhaustion has distorted my view of men? Because my stalker doesn’t look like someone who would harm anyone. He’s not a Donovan Fletcher. He’s not a Stefan Boss. The man’s gaze is tempered, even kind. Kind? Yes, like Clayton, only not that intense.
“Neither,” he answers in his deep voice. He must be in his early forties, and he’s dressed just like the locals here.
“Who sent you?” I cock my gun.
“I’m Simon Blake. Clayton Hartley sent me.”
“So, the fool.” I rue the fact that Clayton is stupid enough to follow me after what I’ve done.
“Make no mistake, Miss Martins. Mr. Hartley is not a fool.”
Miss Martins.
This man knows about Isabelli Martins.
I tighten my grip, pointing the barrel at his head. I had told my shooting instructor that I didn’t want to shoot to kill—which he laughed at. ‘You wouldn’t just shoot to wound, young lady,’ he said. Perhaps he was right, because in reality, it feels stupid to aim low.
My stalker, whose name turns out to be Simon Blake, mumbles, “He just loves you too much.” He almost makes no sense, as if something has interfered with his vocal cord.
I stop breathing for a few seconds. After all, I haven’t got what it takes to take a life. Especially after hearing the word ‘love.’
“Put the gun down, Miss Martins.” His normal voice returns. He’s so calm, I consider if he actually wanted me to catch him. He’s right, too, that Clayton Hartley is not a fool. And with what he’s got, he won’t hire a fool, either.
I slip my gun in the waistband of my jeans.
“Talk to him,” he urges.
“Go back to California! Tell Mr. Hartley that Isabelli Martins never met him.”
“He really wants to talk to you.”
Something clamps my throat. The air has changed, just like the PI’s expression. “Then where is he?”
He doesn’t have to tell me. I didn’t even have to ask.
“I’m here.”
29
CLAYTON
I glare at her.
